


The In Harm's Way Affair

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-12 23:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17476721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: A fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent supposedly commits suicide, and Solo and Kuryakin must prove that his death by his own hand was not as it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a greatly expanded and revised version of a six-parter I wrote for Section VII's Short Affair Challenges and posted on fanfiction.net.

It frightened the hell out of Napoleon Solo that Illya Kuryakin had almost been successful in slitting his own throat.  What new heinous potion had this latest cabal of lunatic THRUSH scientists cooked up?

_Earlier that day..._

Solo piloted—his partner in the co-pilot seat—the small U.N.C.L.E. jet to the capital city of Louisiana.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled, a sure sign this was likely to be a hazardous mission.  He trusted that sign, as it had served him well so far in his career.  He entered a contemplative mood as he went over again what their chief had said.

The briefing started with Alexander Waverly telling them that Jules “Julie” Bussiere, a Section II agent based out of his hometown of New Orleans had died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.  The coroner had yet to deliver his ruling of accidental versus intentional death at Waverly's request for a delay, having shared his strong suspicion with the coroner that the death was not suicide.

Waverly had explained that Bussiere, who had worked with both Solo and Kuryakin on separate affairs, was monitoring unusual activity on the property of an antebellum mansion.  He'd had virtually no back-up when he'd gone in for a closer look; almost every other agent in Louisiana and east Texas was part of a large, medium-risk operation in Shreveport that had taken weeks to plan.

“Find the reason for Mr. Bussiere's untimely and most unfortunate demise,” Waverly had said.  “No question THRUSH has its diabolical 'beak' in this.  Undoubtedly someone developed a new serum or brainwashing technique.  Once you discover the reason, destroy it and bring those accountable to justice.  And without delay, gentlemen.  If my suspicions are correct, all of our agents are at higher risk than usual, not to mention the innocent public.  One of our jets awaits you at Kennedy Airport.  Mr. Solo, I believe you need some flight time to maintain your pilot's license.”

As they stood to leave, Waverly had warned, “Please remember, gentlemen, that you, like Mr. Bussiere, will have little support.  Keep that in mind.”

<><><> 

“A ruble for your thoughts, Napoleon,” stirred Solo from his reverie.

Napoleon smiled with closed, thinned lips.  “Just thinking about this assignment.  I'm concerned that we'll probably have no back-up.”

“We rarely do, my friend.”

“True, but this one is giving me a sense of impending doom.”

Illya exhaled heavily through his nose.  “There is no scientific evidence for such a thing.  However, I do trust your intuition, which I think is actually your ability to analyze a situation and think of possible contingencies and outcomes.”

“Spoken like a true boffin.”

“Because I value our friendship, I shall believe your use of that term is in its positive connotation.”

“You would be correct.  After all, your scientific knowledge has kept me—and the world—chugging along like the little engine that could.”

“Sometimes, Napoleon, your attempts to confound me with obscure references are irritating.”

Solo, suddenly not feeling up to his usual rejoinder, checked the instrument panel and found everything as it should be.

They lapsed into a brooding silence, with Illya turning away from Napoleon to look out his side window.

A few minutes later, Illya said, “When Julie and I worked on a long-term assignment in Paris and Berlin, we became friends.  I learned he was a devout Roman Catholic.  We must succeed in proving that he did _not_ voluntarily kill himself so he may have a proper burial.”

Napoleon placed a reassuring hand on Illya's shoulder.  “We will, partner mine.”

<MFU>

The Baton Rouge office was almost empty of humanity, except for a secretary doing double-duty as receptionist and the Shreveport strike force's off-site coordinator.

The secretary, a petite but shapely brunette, escorted the visiting agents to the staging room where all of Bussiere's intel was laid out along with area maps and a detailed map of the property in question on a large table.  Both standing and hand-held lights with magnification were available.  There was a large chalkboard on one wall, equipped with several colors of chalk and an eraser.  In one corner were coffee and water dispensers.  Illya immediately set about studying the materials.

“I think you'll find everything you need, gentleman,” said the woman in a Creole accent.  “Call me if you need anything at all.”

Napoleon gave her a gracious smile and said in a mildly seductive tone, “I most certainly will, uh …?”

“Evangeline Cheval, Mr. Solo.  You may call me _Mrs_. Cheval.”  She flashed him with her diamond-bedecked left hand.

Napoleon, recovering quickly from that surprise, didn't miss Illya's wry smile and soft snicker.

“Of course, Mrs. Cheval.”

“I'll bring you lunch around noon.  Will shrimp po'boys and sweet tea be acceptable?”

“Two sandwiches for me, please,” piped up Illya immediately.  “No ketchup or mustard.”  He gave Napoleon a teasing glance.  Napoleon tossed him a stink eye.

Evangeline turned up her nose.  “How disgusting.  Those condiments would be sacrilege.”  She left in a huff.

“You didn't notice her rings,” said Illya matter-of-factly as he studied an area map.  “You're slipping, my friend.  But I understand.  You just can't help yourself.”  He snickered again.

“One of these days, Illya,” his partner mock-threatened.  He removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of a chair.  “So, come up with a plan yet?”

Illya rolled his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The team had a plan and were on their way to the mansion by 1 p.m., Illya driving as he had won the thumb fight.  As he steered the car onto the road where the estate was, he said, “I am not thrilled with doing this without the cover of night.”

Napoleon simply nodded his agreement and felt as if good fortune was abandoning them.

Illya parked well out of sight of the mansion and its guard house entrance.  They cautiously approached the west perimeter, looking for booby traps or alarm tripwires.  Their prudence was rewarded, as they discovered several such traps.

“I'm hoping this precaution is all due to the relative isolation and impressive acreage of this satrapy,” said Napoleon, “and not to the high priority of this latest venture into world domination.”

His partner nodded, sending damp strands of blond hair into his eyes.  He brushed the errant locks to aside.  “I suspect Julie may have activated one of these alarms unwittingly.”

“Could be.  Let's go a little farther before we head closer to the house.  We'll approach after the next security patrol.”

They hadn't considered the possibility that the “lords of the manor” had stepped up patrols and widened their scope after Bussiere's capture.

<MFU>

They were roughly halfway through traversing a ridge on the west perimeter, looking for a way in that would give them decent cover to approach the house when Kuryakin spotted two THRUSHes aiming rifles at them.  Illya body-slammed his partner down the embankment.  He reached into his jacket and squeezed the small dent in his communicator.  The time he used for that stole any chance for him shooting the guards.  His hand was on his gun's butt when he took both hits—one to his neck, the other to his leg—of THRUSH's version of sleeping-inducing darts.  He narrowly missed following his partner down the hill.

The THRUSHes slung their rifles on their backs and walked swiftly to their unconscious victim.  One of them pointed to the lax body in the ditch far below.

“I don't think he made it.  Ain't that a hoot.  Killed by his own partner.”

The second man screwed up his face.  “Naw, I think he's still breathin'.  Anyway, too hard to haul him up.  I say we leave 'im there.  The docs only want one poor jerk at a time anyways.”

“Okay by me.  Should we tell the boss about that guy?”

“Nah.  He’d just yell at us and make us go get ‘im.  Don’t know about you, but totin’ one limp body in this heat is enough.  Let's go.”

They dragged the senseless man by his arms to the moss-strung mansion.

<MFU>

The burly leader of the facility went through their prisoner's effects as the men handed him the garments they were stripping from him.  He didn't care about anything but the identification he found, since the man would be dead in a couple hours, if not sooner.

“Hmm,” he said out loud.  He stared at the foreign name on the yellow card emblazoned with a skeletal globe and a man's silhouette on one side and U.N.C.L.E. beneath it.  He'd seen the name before, on a memo or something like that, not too long ago.  He remembered it because it was weird and probably Russian.  Those Russkies all had weird names.

“What's his name?” asked the lab-coated woman.

He showed her the ID card.  “Another U.N.C.L.E. agent.”  Her maleficent smile—if it could be called a smile at all—made him shiver.

And then he remembered the man was high up in Section II.  He wondered how such a puny guy could be an enforcement agent.  He shrugged, knowing he'd never have the answer and didn't care.  He bundled the clothes and placed them, along with the gun and holster, on the shelf beneath the stretcher where the U.N.C.L.E. agent was laid out like a slab of beef, waiting for a butcher.

“Dr. Lark,” he said to the woman who was obviously eager to start the experiment, “you can go ahead.  I just need to call this into the New Orleans office.”

<MFU>

Illya moan-gasped upon his jarring arousal and the awareness of a needle being removed none too gently from the crook of his elbow.  He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it.  He shuttered them again against the intense photophobia he experienced.  Soon after he realized his wrists and ankles were bound in metal and a leather band across his forehead secured his head.  A deep breath filled his nostrils with the stomach-churning odor of partially digested fatty sausages and sauerkraut.

“Oh, dear, Mr., um, how do you pronounce it … Kurryakeen?”  The lilting voice with a faint German accent belonged to a female, which explained the halitosis.  “The reversal agent for our tranquilizer has a few little side effects.  The lights should only bother you for a few more minutes.  Also, you may notice that you are feeling quite warm.  We've taken the liberty of removing most of your clothing so you'll be more comfortable.  And the dizziness will pass soon as well.”

He wondered why she hadn’t mentioned the other side effects: an abysmally throbbing headache, a pounding, rapid heart rate, full-body muscle aches.

“Thank you for coming,” she continued.  “We didn’t think we’d have a new test subject so soon after our last U.N.C.L.E. ‘volunteer.’”  She made a peculiar sound in her throat that seemed, in Illya’s opinion, a self-congratulatory sneer.

_Not again_ , he thought.  _A white rat with proverbial fur only around his middle.  Napoleon, you better get here soon_.  Of course, that was only a possibility if his push hadn’t killed Napoleon or he had been significantly injured by the plunge down the hill.  Or been captured as well.

“My colleagues and I will start the experiment as soon as the antidote has worn off.  You understand, I hope, that we don't want anything in your system that might interfere with the new serum's action, don't you, Mr. Kurryakeen?”

Illya growled.  “It's Kuryakin, you imbecile.”

He wheezed from the unanticipated blow to his solar plexus.

“Mind your manners,” the woman said.  He could hear her swearing quietly and rubbing something.  _Her fist, I hope._

She took a deep breath.  “I think I will give you smaller doses of the mildest chemical to start.  That way, you will have the opportunity to inflict damage to yourself before you finish.”  She chortled and added, “Forever.”  She turned away to confer quietly with her colleagues.

Several minutes later, Illya felt the prick of a needle at the same time a pulsating yellowish light shone above him; closing his eyes did little to dim it.  The injection, also tinted yellow, produced an icy-hot, bubbly sensation that quickly crawled up his arm.  A few seconds later, he felt as if he was losing himself in thick, pungent smog.  Hanging onto a bare minimum of self-awareness, he heard an extremely cacophonic mix of fear and pleasure banging about in his head.  It rapidly became more than he could bear.  He whimpered loudly, not hearing himself, and started groping about as best he could for something to harm himself with; it was the only thought existing in his mind, the only thing that could deaden the bizarre sounds in his head.  In short order the handle of a scalpel was slapped into his right hand.  With an odd sense of relief, he ran the instrument's edge along his shorts, cutting through them to his skin, not deeply, where he could within the limited range the restraint gave him.  Thankfully, unbelievably, the noise in his head calmed.

The chemical wore off more quickly than he thought it would.  He slowly returned to semi-normal functioning and the realization that he had wounded himself, that he now felt the pain of the cuts, that things would only get worse until he met the same end as Bussiere.


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon regained consciousness slowly.  He took inventory and found he'd picked up an assortment of scratches and bruises and a nice-sized goose egg on the back of his head, which he rightly assumed was responsible for his dizziness, blurred vision, headache, and nausea.  His stomach roiled to warn of oncoming retching.  Not soon enough, it quieted down to plain, old nausea.

_Just what I need—a concussion_.  He picked at the rips in his suit.  _And making matters worse .._.  He sighed his resignation to the inevitable chewing out Waverly and Accounting would certainly give him.

He sat up slowly and stayed that way to wait for the world to stop spinning so fast.  In the meantime, he thought of Illya.

He tried to be mad with his friend and partner, but Illya had made the right call in sending him careening down the rocky embankment.  It was his own fault for not tumbling correctly as he'd been taught at Survival School.  Regardless, if they'd both been captured, they'd surely be facing involuntary suicide.  With him free, they stood a chance of success.  Nevertheless, he fought back the increasing worry that the most important person in his life may already be dead.

_Get on with doing, Solo._   He raised his arm rather than move his head to check his watch.  Though the crystal was splintered, the U.N.C.L.E.-issued timepiece still ran.  He estimated that he'd been out close to two hours.  _Don't even **think** you're too late_.

Napoleon could tell his gun was snug in its holster.  He felt for his transceiver; it wasn't there.

On his hands and knees, not yet daring to stand, he began the tedious search for his lost communicator.  Fifteen minutes later, he had it, pleasantly surprised it was intact.  He depressed the tiny button on the clip that switched on the tracking component.  He smiled at the rhythmic beep; Illya had been able to activate his signal.  At least he wouldn't have to search each of the six structures on the old plantation.

Between his brain not quite firing properly and his choking fear about what was happening to Illya, it didn't occur to him to notify Waverly of his situation and Kuryakin's capture.

Taking a deep breath, Solo began the laborious climb up the hill, falling frequently but managing not to add further injury.

<MFU>

Kuryakin was spending less and less time in a drug-free state.  During these breaks, three voices chattered away loudly in French, discussing their observations of him—pulse, respiratory rate, pupil size, ability to follow commands, time to return to baseline and awareness of pain, extent of his self-inflicted injuries.  They pressed him to tell him what he was experiencing but he refused to respond and endured the inevitable punch or slap from the German woman.  Instead, he worked on unsolved mathematical problems such as Lyapunov's second method of stability and the four exponentials conjecture.

Each time he was dosed, the amount he was given increased.  After a series of gold-colored injections, the color of both the serum and the pulsing light changed to blue.  After the blue series came the green series.  With each change, he felt something different, including how he wanted to harm himself.  Sometimes, they'd leave him cuffed, and he would fight violently against the restraints, hoping to break them so he could satisfy the urge to beat, cut, or strangle himself, or claw at his neck to rip open the carotid arteries and jugular veins, or rip out his trachea or the arteries in his wrists.

And each time he came down from the drug, he felt an artificial power racing through him.  Each time he came down, he felt his sense of self drift away more and more, evaporating into the ether.  Felt the biting, fiery pain in the eroding soft tissue of his wrists and ankles.   Now he couldn't even recite the first 21 Fibonacci numbers, knowledge that had been his since early childhood.

“Our little experiment comes to its inevitable ending, Mr. Kurryakeen—yours.”

The light became reddish and pulsed at a different rate than all the times before.  The injection felt like fast-moving molten lava.  He arched his back in agony, tugged harder at the restraints on his wrists and ankles, and screamed until that sound was abruptly extinguished along with him, no longer wandering lost but gone.  His last thought was _Napoleon_.

Now all he was, was his executioner, nameless and soulless.


	4. Chapter 4

Solo finally reached the top of the hill and laid there until the pinball machine in his head came out of full tilt.  He stood with effort and started walking.  His unsteady gait nearly had him falling down the embankment again several times, but he avoided that only because of his staunch determination to rescue his partner.  He would crawl naked through fire and over broken glass to get to Illya, so this was a piece of cake.

As the west perimeter rounded to become the south perimeter, Napoleon found a slightly overgrown trail that wound through trees and high bushes that would give him good cover.  He took his time so he could spot any traps.

He finally got to one of the out buildings—the smithy most likely.  He waved his communicator from one side to the other slowly until he was sure where the signal from Illya's transmitter was strongest.  Of course, there was no guarantee Illya and his communicator were even in the same building.  Furious with himself for this pessimistic burst, Solo took a few calming breaths.

Several stealthy moves toward it brought him to the mansion, where he hid in a hedge of mature spicebushes at its rear.  It took him a few minutes to realize he needed to go higher if he wanted to see anything useful.  And the answer stood, all green and brown and majestic, between the hedgerow and the house.

He hated climbing trees.  He could do it, almost as good as Illya, who he thought was part monkey, but hated it nonetheless.  Plus, he had the handicap of a concussion.  He took a few moments to psyche himself up for climbing the oak tree.  _Just take it slow, pal_.

He was lucky that this tree had many sturdy branches close together, perfect for an amateur climber—and for one with faulty vision and a swimming head.  Finally, he reached an acceptable height with an accommodating break in the greenery.  He sat and held on tightly to a nearby branch as if his life depended on it, which it did.

It didn't take long for him to conclude that extricating Illya wouldn't be simple or straightforward, what with ten guards in constant motion around the mansion, surveying the grounds.  He was lucky he had gotten this far without detection.  He spotted only one person who was wearing a white lab coat and talking to the only guard standing still.  He could see no other way of taking them out than by shooting them from where he was.

_Okay, Lady Luck, we're up.  Illya and the world needs us_.  He squeezed his eyes closed then opened them, repeating this pattern until his vision improved somewhat.  He willed the vertigo to at least slow down, which of course it didn't.  He took a deep, centering breath and began firing.

To his punch-drunk astonishment, every sleep dart hit home.  As the non-tranquilized guards reached the back on their rounds, he was able to shoot them before they could raise an alarm.

The climb down was harrowing as his vertigo increased and his vision fuzzed more.  By the time he touched ground, he was shaking from fatigue and dread.  It felt as if he was aboard his sloop in rough, heavy seas.  He vomited this time, bile burning his throat even after he was done.

Gamely, he wiped his wet forehead with a sleeve and started for the mansion's rear door.  He passed through the summer kitchen to enter the mansion itself.

Again, he was lucky.  No one was in the indoor kitchen and he heard no one close by.  He checked his tracker again.  The signal was definitely stronger and coming from his right.  He clipped the transceiver under his lapel to muffle the sound.  Hopefully only he would hear it.

Creeping along as quietly as he could, using whatever wall was convenient to help keep him upright, Napoleon advanced, noting the increasing signal telling him Illya was close.

Out of nowhere, a guard opened a door and stepped into the hall a few feet in front of the U.N.C.L.E. agent.  He was in the process of zipping up his jumpsuit when the sleep dart pierced his neck.

Napoleon, brain whirling like a dervish, helped the man to the floor for a quieter landing.  For a second or two, he thought he might join the THRUSH but some deep breaths and closed eyes kept that from happening.  He took several more deep breaths to prepare him for his next task—dragging the sleeping THRUSHman into the bathroom.

"You should be more careful.  Most accidents in the satrapy occur in the bathroom," he said as he painstakingly curled the unconscious man around the toilet.  That done, he took a few moments to rinse out the vileness in his mouth with warm water from the faucet.  He wanted to drink, but he doubted his stomach would appreciate it.

Solo resumed his search.  He passed several rooms with open doors.  A fast peek around the jambs informed him each room was empty.  Nevertheless, he proceeded with near-silent care.

He noticed a subtle decrease in the signal from Illya's communicator.  Experimenting, he took a few steps back; the signal grew stronger.  But there was nothing on this floor.

Then it hit him:  nothing on _this_ floor.  He unclipped his transceiver and raised it above his head.  The signal faded ever so slightly.  Next, he lowered it toward the floor.  The signal became stronger.

_Basement!_   Now to find the door and staircase to take him to the lower level.  Who knew how long that would take.  He wracked his brain to come up with faster alternatives when he recalled a dumbwaiter in the indoor kitchen.  He ran back the way he came.

In the kitchen, he went straight for the dumbwaiter, its doors open.  It was fortunate that it now ran on electricity.  A look at the bottom assured him it went down to his ultimate destination—Illya.

He holstered his weapon then squeezed into the small chamber.  His head swam from the effort.  Once it settled, he pressed the down button, hoping it would take his weight.  He crossed his fingers as the frame descended, hoping it would land him near Illya.

He was almost at the bottom when he heard an agonized, terror-filled scream that invaded his being like a poisonous boa constrictor determined to strangle all hope from him.

_Too late?_ he thought, wallowing in his own newfound agony, as he, pistol already back in his hand, bounded from the frame.  He ran, unsteady but purposeful, to the sound that still echoed in his entire body.


	5. Chapter 5

There were two guards at the entrance to what Solo assumed was the lab.  Both were looking at the closed door, at least curious or maybe even disturbed by that horrific sound that had so recently come from within.

He darted them both, and both fell to block the door.  With a new rush of adrenaline that rivaled what mothers had when they reportedly lifted cars off their children, Napoleon rolled them away as if they were straws.

He opened the door to see Kuryakin wearing only bloody boxers and bound to a steel table by one wrist, both ankles, and his head.  One of the three THRUSHes present was placing a combat knife in Illya's free hand.

Solo's heart seemed to turn into a huge panic button that was being pounded at least 150 times a minutes.

Despite the escalating fear that he was too late, Napoleon took great pleasure at dropping that THRUSH, though he wished it had been by bullet.  He darted the other two in his rush to Illya's side.

It chilled Napoleon to the bone to see the demented, single-minded expression on his partner's face as he manipulated the blade's handle to suit his purpose.  For a brief moment, Illya looked at him.  The lack of recognition in those familiar eyes informed him that his Illya was not in there.

Napoleon, his own throat so constricted that any sound was stifled, unhesitatingly stuck his left forearm between Illya's neck and the knife.  There was no pain as the blade sliced his arm, though the blood welled up fairly rapidly.  He wiggled his fingers, wincing at the pain that was just starting to make itself known.  _Good; no major damage_.

A thwarted Illya took several seconds to realize his throat was untouched.

Napoleon took advantage of the lull to back away and dart Illya in his side—to no effect.  Not too surprised, considering UNCLE agents were conditioned to resist the effect of their own sleep darts.

Illya changed his hold on the knife and raised it in preparation to plunge it into his upper abdomen.

Napoleon's vocal cords recovered, allowing him to shout, “Illya! No!”

The startled Russian paused long enough for Napoleon shoot him again.

This time to his surprise, the knock-out serum worked.  Illya released the knife, which sliced his skin along a rib on its way to the floor.

Napoleon exhaled his relief loudly as he worked Illya's blood-slicked wrist back in its restraint.  “Won't be long before you're free, my friend.”

Next thing needing attention was his arm.  He had to rummage through two big supply cabinets to find what he needed.  In short order, he bandaged his wound with a thick padding of sterile gauze held in place with a tightly applied elastic wrap over the coat sleeve.

He opened the glass-fronted cabinet that held four shelves, each shelf home to small medication vials filled with one of four different colors of fluid.  He took one bottle from each shelf and secreted them in his pants pocket.  The rest he threw in the sink hard enough to break them.  He found a book with notes and formulas and pocketed that as well.

He returned to Illya's side to examine the damage done.  In addition to the fresh wound, there were numerous cuts of varying depths and lengths on his left arm, right leg and hip, and torso, none serious but several that would need stitches.  Bruises were in the early stages of forming on his trunk.  There were multiple needle tracks on the inside of his elbow.  To go from these relatively harmless self-inflicted cuttings to throat-slashing, the last dose must have been much greater than or a different formulation from the previous ones.

He silently cursed THRUSH for their all-too-frequent use of U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially his partner, as guinea pigs for their malevolent concoctions.  The effect of this particular witch's brew was easy to deduce: the recipient was compelled to cause himself harm.  Such a drug would give THRUSH a huge advantage in the field.  _And not just the field_ , he added to his analysis.

Napoleon rapidly and sloppily dressed Illya's wounds with gauze and tape.  Taking a deep breath to settle his head and stomach and keeping his gun handy in case he had to give Illya another dose, he unfastened the restraints on his ankles and head first, and lastly his wrists.

The skin, as Napoleon expected, was raw, skinless in parts, the bony whiteness of the protuberances at the wrists showing, and briskly leaking serum and blood.  _You were trying really hard, weren't you, tovarishch_.  He wrapped the joints but left the head abrasion open to the air.

“Can't go scandalizing the female population of Baton Rouge, IK,” he said as pulled Illya's clothes from beneath the gurney he was on.  Napoleon worked swiftly to get the slumbering man in his shirt and trousers.

Napoleon briefly stopped to deal with the dizziness from the continued blood loss, head injury, and increasing pain.  His flagging energy reminded him they had to leave now because later they might not make it out.

He shoved his Special, almost empty of sleep darts, into the back of his trousers.  He liberated Illya's weapon from its holster.  “Hope you're not emotionally attached to those proletariat-approved Thom McAn shoes and everything else we're leaving behind.” He threw Illya's jacket over his left shoulder then followed with the jacket's owner himself.  In his right hand was his partner's gun, ready to shoot anyone getting in their way – including Illya the instant he stirred.

They made it to the property's east edge despite several stumbles and the oppressive summer air that did its best to deprive Napoleon of what little energy he had left and oxygen.  His battered and stressed body pleaded for rest.  As he started to give in, he heard shouts behind them.

“Damn!” he grumbled angrily.  More adrenaline kicked in and he took off running on what seemed to be his bobbling boat again.  Holding Illya's dead-but-still-alive weight even tighter against him.  Knowing if they were captured, THRUSH would let Illya finish the experiment.  This thought pushed him into overdrive.


	6. Chapter 6

Solo's luck was with him, and by extension to Kuryakin: they were just feet away from the unfenced arboretum.  Between the weeping willows and magnolia trees, he was sure he could find one with enough low-hanging foliage to conceal them.

Using his jacket sleeve, Napoleon wiped away the sweat cascading down his forehead and blurring his vision further.  Dehydration was compounding the dizziness he was having from the head bump.  His struggle to breathe air heavy with water vapor was becoming greater by the second.  Illya was harder to hold on to because the intense humidity was making him as slippery as an eel.  Both his legs and Illya seemed to be gaining weight exponentially.  Despite the grave situation they were in, he was beginning to drag his feet.  The shouting voices behind them spurred him to find a suitable hiding tree fast.

Some yards into the arboretum, he found, off to his right, a magnolia tree whose branches were laden with thick green leaves that touched the ground.  _That should work_.  The downside was the heavily redolent flowers threatening to make the nausea he'd been keeping in check rush forward in full bloom.  He choked it back and hoped the scent didn't stimulate the same reaction in his partner.

His first step toward the tree found his dragging foot catching on an unseen tree root, sending the partners to the ground overrun with decaying plant life.  As they fell, Napoleon tossed his weapon then cradled Illya's head in his freed palm.  They hit with a thud, Napoleon's weight crushing a sizable portion of Illya.  Illya simply exhaled audibly.

_Now my bruises have bruises_ , he complained silently.  But he'd rather have that than a head injury for his friend.  “Sorry, _tovarishch_ ,” he said as he rolled off Illya.  Too fatigued and pained to stand, he began to crawl toward the gun.  The next thing he knew he was on his back, opening his eyes to see Bertram Fraiser, a THRUSH mole he'd ferreted out years ago in Toronto.

“Well, well,” said Fraiser, his yellowed teeth bared in a savage grin, “if it isn't Napoleon Solo himself, finally awake.” His THRUSH-issued rifle was aimed at Napoleon's mid-section.

Napoleon, dismayed that he'd been unaware of blacking out, cleared his throat and smiled Cheshire-cat-like.  “Wasn't expecting to see you south of the border, Bertie.  Wish I could say it's good to see you.  But you'd know that would be a lie.” There was one other THRUSH, rifle trained on him and standing between him and Illya.  He raised his trunk and supported himself with his forearms.

“I'm delighted to see _you_ , Nappy.  Imagine my surprise when the lead at this facility called Central with the latest subject's ID.  He was familiar with the name and his status, not his appearance.”

Solo almost gasped when out of the corner of his eye he saw that test subject abruptly sit up.  Illya seemed disoriented, confused, trying to get his bearings.  _Is it finally wearing off?_   He forced himself not to change his respiratory pattern or look directly at his partner.  He was astounded that the THRUSHes still weren't paying any attention to Kuryakin.  He had to do something quickly, before Illya resumed hurting himself to death.  His plan was to carefully maneuver himself into a better position to disarm both men using his feet.  He prayed his reaction time would be fast enough, given he certainly would be slower than usual.  In the meantime, he had to keep them off balance.

“Ah, so I see THRUSH Central continues to fail to remedy a big mistake.”

“What the hell do you mean by _that_ , Nappy?” Fraiser asked, defensiveness in his angry question.

Napoleon started the tedious process of inching into position.  “Central doesn't require that all personnel to recognize on sight U.N.C.L.E.'s top two field agents,” he replied matter-of-factly.  “That's bad for business.” He paused for effect.  “You know, Bertie, I've always thought it would be ... a kick to have my face on a wanted poster,” Solo said, a hint of whimsy in his voice.  “Make sure my better side is photographed, would you? And one other thing.  Stop calling me 'Nappy.'”

The turncoat grunted his disdain.  “Too freaking bad, _Nappy_ , because being nicknamed for baby diapers suits you so well.  Regardless, I've been wanting payback ever since you outed me.  Because of you I was assigned to this subtropical hellhole.  Now I have the chance for revenge.  Central wants you alive, but I'm pretty sure you're going to die while escaping.” He raised his rifle and aimed it at Solo's head.  “Your little friend there—Illya something-Russian, isn't it?—will be going back to the mansion to complete the rest of his shortened life.” Fraiser laughed maniacally at his joke.

“Seems you have me at a slight disadvantage, Bertie.  How about we strike a bargain, eh? U.N.C.L.E. let you go free before, so how about letting Kuryakin go free now and I'll be your guinea pig.”

Fraiser laughed again.  “That's a win for me and a double lose for you, Nappy!  Kury-whatever will probably kill himself the minute he wakes up and you'll be doing the same soon enough, whether it's from a bullet I put in you or one you put in yourself.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Bertie.  The drug isn't influencing him any longer.  He's just exhausted.” Napoleon felt a flash of hope when he saw doubt wing its way across Fraiser's face.  Oddly enough, Bertie didn't even look at Illya.  Napoleon fractionally re-positioned his butt again, so close to the angle his legs needed.

That was when Illya vaulted to his feet and reached for the rifle held by the unnamed THRUSH.

Napoleon, giving nothing away to the THRUSHes despite the elephantine squeeze in his chest, cursed soundlessly as one of Illya's broad, strong hands connected hard with the THRUSH's jaw.  Simultaneously, his other hand encircled the barrel that would be the instrument delivering the bullet ending him.


	7. Chapter 7

Kuryakin sped into consciousness then bolted to a sitting position.  His brain felt as if it were in a wind tunnel performing fiery, complex gymnastics, going from the parallel bars to the pommel horse to the still rings to the horizontal bar, never dismounting between each exercise.

He blinked a few times in an attempt to clear the stark black-and-white of his vision—it didn't occur to him to question why he saw no color—into which disturbing shades of gray had begun to intrude.  It momentarily flustered him but he came to accept the change mindlessly.

Without warning, Illya once again was consumed with the desperate urge to harm himself.  But something stopped him—a voice he knew so well but couldn't place.  There was another voice that sounded bitter and callous and unfamiliar.  When he heard that voice, his brain bristled like porcupine quills, and the compulsion to shove skewers into his ears or dig his eyes out of their sockets came on with a vengeance.  Then just as he would curl his hands into claw-like shapes, the known voice soothed him, quelled his urgency for self-destruction.

The back-and-forth between the two voices made him feel as if he were riding an acoustic sine wave.

All through this, he kept hearing commands not quite subliminal, almost buried in the background of his auditory cortex: a broken record of _End yourself_.

_Broken record? What is that?_

His brain somersaulted at the idea of expanding thought.  _This is … different.  New.  I can think of something other than killing myself?_

Eventually he became aware that there were three men—two standing, both aiming weapons at the one man reclining on the ground, torso supported by flexed arms and with his legs stretched out before him.  He knew that man, knew his black hair, knew that the dark gray eyes hid cunning and menace that he was one of the privileged few to know what lurked behind the façade of affability.  How he knew that he couldn't say, nor how he knew the man was his responsibility and seeing him in a compromised situation filled him with a different sense of urgency.  The need to defend that man was so intense that it overrode his need to kill or even hurt himself.

_Who is he?_ That question led to a more perplexing one: _Who am **I**?_

Then his fidgety brain switched gears again.  _Protect him_.

Illya jumped to his feet soundlessly, but this time the motion caught the men's attention.  Within that same second, he hit the nearest man's jaw as he grabbed the rifle from him.  With lightning speed, he turned the weapon on him and fired twice into his chest.  Before the other man with the hardened voice could swing his weapon around, Illya shot him twice as well, giving the man two new holes in his head.

The threat to the man on the ground gone, Kuryakin's brain reignited with the coldly bitter need to shatter himself.

With all swift deliberateness, Illya swung the rifle around to point it accurately and steadily at himself, despite his sweaty grasp on the triggering mechanism and his trembling.  He looked at the nameless man who for some reason he trusted as no other and loved as his “behind the soul” brother, whose dark gray eyes were turning … _Brown?_ He could feel his own eyes involuntarily fill with sorrow and a request for forgiveness, could feel pain throughout his mind and body creeping in like thieves of hope.

<><><><><> 

For a split second, Napoleon thought the drug had actually had worn off, but the instant Illya swung the gun around to aim at himself, his heart sank to the middle of the earth.

Frantic but controlled, Solo knew he couldn't get up in time to wrench the weapon away from his friend.  Again a clod of fear paralyzed his vocal cords, so even shouting a simple syllable like _No_ or _Stop_ wasn't going to happen.  Speaking probably wouldn't do any good anyway; he doubted Illya could even understand any spoken word.

Knocking the rifle from Illya’s grip with his feet, as he had planned to do to the THRUSHes, was the only option left to him.  If he failed, Napoleon acknowledged his spirit would be crushed.  Always the optimist, he had faith that at least trying to stop such a catastrophe might ameliorate that unspeakable agony an infinitesimal amount.

He tried to ignore the plea and the sadness in Illya's glassy blue eyes—eyes that now held a trace of recognition—were sending him, disheartening him.  At the same time, he subconsciously noted that his partner hesitated, something he hadn't done in the lab.  Any hope he might have felt from that was dashed when Illya's expression became distant.

_I need less than a second, Illya.  Give me that._

He swung his leg hard and fast, grunting from the pain that galloped through his body.  His foot connected with the rifle's barrel a millisecond before Illya squeezed the trigger.


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of rifle fire reverberated mercilessly in Solo's head and chest, as if the sonic blast was rupturing multiple organs.  The thud of Illya hitting the ground was distant but nonetheless too loud in Solo’s ringing ears.

The kick's momentum knocked him on his side, blocking his view of Kuryakin.  Now, he hesitated to roll onto his back, afraid to witness the outcome, as if seeing it would make Illya deader than he probably already was.

His professionalism and personal need to face what had happened took over.  Holding his breath, he peered over his shoulder.

A streak of blood started on Illya's left cheek and ended somewhere in the hair that sweat had colored caramel.  Blood coated the detritus of the arboretum floor.

He watched Illya's chest, thought he saw it expand and fall, but his vision was too filmy for him to be sure.  Napoleon exhaled, forced himself to believe Illya was still with him.  _Where there's life_ …

Too achy to stand, especially with a newly pulled groin, he got to his hands and knees and crabbed over to his partner.  He placed two trembling fingers on Illya's neck, closed his eyes, and pressed lightly.

There it was—a too-fast but strong pulse.  He thanked all possible gods and a few demi-gods.  _There's hope_ , he finished.

Quickly he determined the wound was a deep graze.  There were powder burns and stippling on Illya's face and eyelid, indicating he had closed his eyes as he triggered the rifle.  In all likelihood, that eye had been spared injury.

He had to get them out of here and fast.  Fraiser undoubtedly didn't arrive with just one other THRUSH.  The others would be converging on them too soon, thanks to the gunshots.  Another swell of adrenaline cleared the haze rapidly invading his brain.

Napoleon couldn't carry Illya; he could barely walk himself.  They'd both have to take pep pills—not a good idea given their physical condition but necessary for a chance at surviving.  He wasn't carrying any, so he crawled over to Illya's jacket and searched it, counting on it being highly customized.  Solo referred to these as Illya's “Harpo Marx” coats, because the over-sized jackets had extra pockets that held all sorts of odd but often helpful items.

He struck gold.  He withdrew two small boxes—one containing ammonia capsules and the other orange pills that identified them as a hybrid of pain killers and amphetamines—and handcuffs.  Unfortunately there were no bandages or heme-stoppers, a recent Section VIII invention very early in field testing.

Napoleon kneed back to Illya’s side.  He snapped open an ammonia capsule under Illya's nose.  He responded too slowly to suit Napoleon, making him think the injury was worse than a graze.  He sat back on his heels and waited.  He unintentionally closed his tired eyes and only opened them when he felt his friend turn and move toward the nameless THRUSH.

He followed Illya's fast-moving hand and gasped when he saw the pale fingers encircle the hilt of a knife on the THRUSH's belt.

Napoleon shouted, “No!” but it didn't deter Illya, who had already drawn the knife from its scabbard.  _How is he doing this? Where the hell is this energy coming from?_ Solo gripped the armed hand with both of his.  Although Illya had the weapon in a death grip, Solo eventually was able to pry it from his grasp.

He tossed the knife a dozen yards away then inhaled sharply as Illya's knee slammed into his kidney.  With more agility and energy than he thought he possessed at this moment, Napoleon grabbed Illya's wrists, wrestling him to his back, then straddled him across the thighs.  “Dammit, Illya,” he hissed.  _Whoever devised this witches' brew should take it himself—if I don't kill him first_.

“Ffffffffffff -”  Illya stopped and angrily pursed his lips as he struggled to free himself.

Napoleon's chest tightened at Illya's prolonged stutter.  “Come on, IK.  Talk to me.”

Furious, Illya's eyes met his partner's, and said in a voice coarse from disuse and strain, “Ffffiddlesticks!”

A heartbeat passed before Napoleon made the connection and laughed heartily.  “That's the best thing I've heard all day!” he exclaimed.

Solo, keeping his grip tight on his unexpectedly strong partner— _Or I am that weak?_ —he said conversationally, “I might have made a mistake in not taking my pill first then cuffing you, _tovarishch_.” Then he did just that, fighting his squirming and bent-on-escaping friend the entire time until his hands were secured behind his back.  Mentally, he apologized for fastening the steel circles on raw wrists only loosely covered with soggy dressings.

Napoleon picked out one of the pills from the other box and tried to feed it to a leery, obstinate Illya, who clamped his lips closed.  The American shrugged, then choked the pill down himself.  He took another out and held it while his eyes asked Illya to take it.

Illya's expression lost some of its wariness and opened his mouth slightly.

_I'll take any amount of trust I can get_.  Quickly, Napoleon shoved it in and held Illya's lips together until he saw the Russian grimace and swallow repeatedly.  “Pretty bitter, isn't it?”

Napoleon gave them a few minutes for the pill to take effect.  He stood, shaky at first, then retrieved their Specials.  He replaced his at the small of his back and the other he kept in his right hand.  Next, he helped Illya up.

He took stock of their status.  Dirt clung to them as mud, thanks to their heavy sweating.  They could barely stand upright.  Their wounds had bled through the dressings.  One side of Illya's face and head was bloody.  But they were alive.

_Not for long_ , Solo thought as the sound of people yelling not too far behind them reached his ears.  Illya gave no indication of noticing that at all.

“We have to go.  _Now_.”  The defiant attitude emanating from Illya disturbed Napoleon, along with those frosty blue eyes darting between him and the knife, like a bee zeroing in on a coveted flower.  His partner was going to prove to be more difficult to deal with than he anticipated.

Illya glowered at him and tried to jerk away when Napoleon demonstrated he’d have none of that when he clenched his left hand around Illya's right arm.

“Forget the damn knife!”  He gripped tighter, sending a shock wave of pain up his arm, and dragged his stumbling partner along at a brutal pace despite his groin pain, any concern about Illya's bare feet pushed aside.


	9. Chapter 9

They were sucking in the moist air almost desperately when they stumbled into a sunny meadow carpeted with orange milkweed and swarming butterflies.  Napoleon, only marginally less tired and painful, wanted nothing more than to lie down among the flowers and sleep, like Dorothy in the poppy field.

It was Illya contorting himself to snatch the gun Napoleon had tucked in his waistband that dashed that dream.  He picked up the pace.  Butterflies scattered in winged frenzy around them.

About fifty yards later, without warning, Illya yanked the pair of them to the left as hard as he could, bringing Solo down on him.

“What the …?” Napoleon whispered.  He looked at Illya beneath him, who then nodded at something behind him.  He turned in time to see a diamondback rattlesnake dangerously close to his foot slither off a rock away from them.

“Thanks.  You saved me again.  Do you know why?”

Illya studied him closely.  Intense brown eyes in a face reddened with exertion and creased with worry stirred something in his brain.  “ _Moy brat_.” He chuffed at the questioning look on the man's face.  With effort, he translated to English.  My … bbbbbrother,” he said, a heavily accented half-statement, half-question.

Napoleon grinned his elation, leaning in until forehead touched forehead.  _You're coming back to me_.

“Well, _brother_ mine, the drug seems to be wearing off,” Solo declared.  “You seriously need to stop volunteering as a guinea pig for fiendish science projects.”  He rolled off Illya, in the process releasing his hold.  Foggy-headed, he let his guard down and came to rest on his side, back to Illya.

Perceiving that there was a threat of some kind, Illya seized the opportunity to curl into a ball.  He slid his cuffed hands under his butt, and slipped one leg then the other through them, ignoring the growing awareness of pain.  He lunged for the gun at the man's back, freed it, and flipped the switch to bullets in one smooth, rapid motion.

Napoleon realized immediately what had happened but wasn't fast enough to stop his partner.  _“_ No! _”_

Entire body vibrating like a spinning top, Illya gripped the gun with both hands then propped his forearms across the man's side for stability.  He fired multiple times at the danger that had finally manifested itself.

Napoleon had automatically turned his gaze to follow Illya's aim.  He watched four THRUSHes at the edge of the meadow fall to earth, each with a new, and likely fatal, hole in their bodies.  Not for the first time, he thought, _I'm glad you're on my side, Illya_.

Illya slumped off Napoleon and sat down hard on his rump.  He inhaled sharply and held it while he stared wild-eyed at the gun that shook so hard Napoleon thought the clip would eject itself.

Napoleon rolled back until Illya's legs stopped his progress.  Moving cautiously, he firmly clamped his hand around the hot muzzle, ready to wrench the pistol from Illya.  He felt the quakes, the uncertainty, in it, a reflection of what must be happening in his partner’s nervous system.

In his trademark calm command tone, Napoleon said quietly, “Breathe, Illya.  Just breathe and let it _all_ go.”

Illya exhaled as he felt something in his head snap, filling it with flame and smoke.  He looked skyward and shrieked in agony until, long moments later, he freed himself from the weapon.  The fire in his brain started burning itself out, the smoke clearing.  He took a deep breath before turning back to regard the man— _Napoleon_.

Solo gulped at the blue eyes that now fully recognized him, once again carried their impish humor he concealed from everyone except Napoleon and a few select others.  In a voice taut with emotion, he said softly, “Welcome back.”

“Nuh-nuh-Napoleon, uncufffff mmm ...”  The innocent smile that belied the sinister tone abruptly changed to a tight-lipped grimace of pain in a face abruptly gone very pale.  He gagged before getting sick all over Solo.  Eyes rolling up, he blacked out, and fell forward into Napoleon.

The stench of the emesis almost triggered an episode for Napoleon, but he resisted.  He laid his unconscious partner gently on the ground softened by the milkweed.  Carefully, he removed his communicator and placed it between his teeth.  Next, he separated the left sleeve from his soiled jacket and shrugged out of what remained intact.  He folded it so the worst of the discharge was on the inside.  He then placed it with exceptional gentleness under Illya's still-bleeding head.

He began searching for the cuffs' key, only to recall he'd neglected to take it from Illya's jacket.  _Damn.  I'm a dead man if he wakes up while he's still cuffed_.  He briefly considered darting Illya a time or two as soon as he showed signs of waking up, but thought better of it, since it would simply make the Russian even madder later.

Napoleon sighed.  The pep in the pill was no longer a match for the extreme fatigue and rapidly depleting reserves.  He doubted he even had the energy to open the communicator.  Yet his intense urge to complete the mission and ensure both of them survived had him opening a channel to HQ.

“Yes, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon gave Waverly a brief rundown of the mission to date and ended with, “Sir, this new potion is exceedingly dangerous.  I highly recommend a team be pulled from the Shreveport mission to take care of this lab at all possible speed.  I managed to secure samples and a notebook, but it's probably best to assume there is more.”

“Indeed, Mr., uh, Solo.  How bad are your and Mr. Kuryakin's injuries?”

Napoleon sighed as he looked at Illya's bleeding head, shirt splotchy with blood from cuts beneath it, deeply abraded wrists, ankles, and feet.  He refused to catalog his own injuries.

“Nothing immediately life-threatening, sir, but we both need medical care.  Illya may still be at risk for harming himself, and I don't think I ...”  Solo stopped speaking, no longer able to generate one more word.  _Protect us from the flying monkeys, Toto_ , was his last thought before triggering his beacon and passing out.


	10. Chapter 10

Waverly raised his unruly eyebrows at the sudden cessation of communication from Solo.  He kept the connection open in hopes that his CEA would speak soon, though he doubted he would hear anything else other than the breaths of his agents.

In the meantime, he, with Lisa Rogers' assistance, mustered a team of six agents from the Shreveport operation to deal with the satrapy and sent a deputy sheriff, a part-time Section III agent, from an adjacent parish to find and rescue Solo and Kuryakin.

<MFU>

In his speeding squad car running siren and lights, Deputy Sheriff Beauford X. Pendergast, a former Section II due to partial deafness brought on by a THRUSH device, led two ambulances toward the signal from Solo’s communicator he had finally homed in on.  He drove as far as he could in the area rich with plant life but poor with passable roads.

He cut the engine and was out as soon as he turned up the volume on his hearing aids, his communicator in hand.  The two pair of ambulance attendants were already hauling out litters and medical bags.  “Okay, fellas, this way.”

It was nearly a mile in with twilight closing in before Pendergast spotted the gone-to-ground agents.  He ran ahead of the medicos, ready to ensure they were still alive and to retrieve the samples and notebook unobserved by the civilians.

Pendergast went first to Solo.  _Alive_ , he confirmed on watching his chest rise and fall.  Keeping his back toward the approaching help, he whispered, “I seen you look and smell better, Napoleon.” Efficiently he extracted the purloined items, then deposited them in his pockets and inside his shirt.  It bothered him, though, that Napoleon didn't react at all.  _Concussion?_

“Oo-ee, these guys've been through the wringer,” declared Clancy, the most senior of the attendants.  “Okay, Herb and Les, y'all take that scrawny fella and me and Harry'll take the other.  And not a bad idea to use some of that VapoRub.”

“Clancy, I need to talk with this one,” Pendergast said, pointing to Solo.

“Okay, but I ain't sure this here'll wake 'im.  He looks all done in.” He broke an ammonia capsule under Napoleon's nose.

Solo shook his head, grimacing from the new stink and the renewed awareness of pain.  He tried but couldn't swat away the smell tormenting him.  Moments later, the smell disappeared.  He opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear blurry vision.  His brow furrowed when he finally focused on the face hovering above him.  “Toto?” he rasped.

Pendergast laughed boisterously.  “Th'enemy been messin' with your head, Napoleon? It's me, pal, Bex.”

It took Napoleon several seconds until his memory kicked in.  A fond “Bex” and a grateful smile was all he could produce.

“Your take is safe and now so are you and your Russkie.  Hot damn! I get to meet me a real Russian!”

Napoleon cleared his throat but the sound that came out was still rusty.  “Watch him … danger … to himself … everyone.”

“Waverly briefed me.  _Fully_.  Don't worry, ol' buddy.  I'll cuff 'im to the stretcher.  Anything else I gotta know?”

With no energy to speak off, Napoleon feebly mouthed a _No_ and returned to the kindness of unconsciousness.

“Let's load 'em up and get outta here A-SAP.”  Pendergast made way for Clancy and Harry, staying close enough to help if needed.

“Dang!” Herb uttered as he and Les lifted Kuryakin.  “This here little feller’s heftier than he looks.”

Pendergast snickered.  _Well, deception **is** part of an agent's stock-in-trade_.  “Careful, boys.  Don't let that fool ya.  He can be dangerous, too.  They _both_ can.”

Kuryakin, very dimly aware, registered hands on him and micro-tremors tumbling helter-skelter through his body.  The low-grade desire to hurt himself abruptly swelled, needling him to give in, so he fought the cuffs.  It was that excruciating pain that sent him back to full oblivion.

The deputy observed the struggle.  “One of y'all needs to ride in the back and watch 'im, but don't get too close.”

<MFU>

On arriving at the local hospital, Pendergast wasn't surprised to see a sketchy character who he read as THRUSH at the emergency entrance.  He mentally crossed his fingers that they wouldn't dare assault the two agents in public, but THRUSH wasn't exactly known for being discreet.

Pendergast's suspicion was confirmed when he saw the man extract a device from his jacket's inner pocket that he recognized as a short-range THRUSH comm, essentially a souped-up walkie-talkie.  Which meant reinforcement agents were close by.  He uttered an oath as he pulled into one of the parking slots at the ER entrance.

He radioed the local police to request an urgent protection detail.  In the meantime, he'd be there for them; he was all the vulnerable agents had.

“Step on it, boys,” he said to the attendants as they began to unload the agents.  _I got a real bad feelin’ about this_.


	11. Chapter 11

The normally unflappable charge nurse with hair as fiery as her no-nonsense personality was flummoxed at the speed at which the ambulance attendants were rolling in their patients.  “What’s the goldang rush, Bex?”  She paused when she saw the bloody blond head.  “Room 1, boys.”  Their smell hit her, involuntarily making her back away.

Pendergast signaled for the attendants to stop.  “Loretta, I need 'em in the same room as far away from the front door as they can be.  _Now_.  They’re in danger.”

Loretta didn’t question either his command or the fact that he was out of his parish, considering law enforcement from surrounding parishes frequently brought people needing more advanced care to this hospital.  “Take ‘em to 12, Tommy,” she said to the orderly to the left and one step behind her.  “I’ll get the doc and join you shortly.”

“Thanks, doll.  And get some more manpower down here, too.”  Pendergast took a short look at the Russian, who at the moment seemed to be unconscious.  He decided to risk de-cuffing him; at least the man could get away and hide should it come to that.  “Hold on, Herb.  I’m gonna free him.  Just back off if he wakes up, okay?”  A wide-eyed Herb nodded briskly.

One handcuff was completely off and the other half off, the steel still encasing Kuryakin’s left wrist, when the first shot sounded.  Pendergast gasped and drooped, hanging onto the gurney’s rail.  A growing patch of red high on his right shoulder began coloring his uniform shirt.

The shot startled Illya to consciousness.  He instantly took in the situation, adrenaline sharpening his entire body, dampening his pain.  Without looking, he knew Napoleon was to his left, his breaths steady in that way that indicated unconsciousness.  An injured man was to his right, service weapon holstered on his right hip.  Four men in sweat-stained white clothing, two at the head and two at the foot of the stretchers, held up their hands in surrender.  Another man on Napoleon’s left squatted next to his partner, his terrified hazel eyes peeking out just above the gurney's frame.

Four more men, all in summer-weight suits tailored to mask shoulder harness holsters, were spread out just inside the ER entrance, weapons up, two rifles— _sleep darts?_ —directed at him and two hand guns at Napoleon.

Sleep darts or not, for Illya, there was no question which THRUSHes he'd take out first.

In that same instant, Illya lifted the safety strap off the gun’s hammer and pulled the weapon out and identified it as standard law enforcement issue, which meant no safety on the revolver itself.  The empty cuff clanged on the pistol’s metal, the unexpected sound buying him a much-needed second.

He aimed for center mass, rather than the head as his KGB training had instilled in him, of one of the THRUSHes targeting Napoleon, what with an unfamiliar gun and spastic tremors in his extremities— _new side effect of the drug?_ He squeezed the trigger.

That THRUSH went down, shot through the heart.

The unfamiliar revolver's recoil threw Illya enough that his second shot caught the other THRUSH in the low right shoulder.  The injury was enough to disable him, at least temporarily.  For now, Napoleon was relatively safe.

Part of him worried that he would run out of bullets eliminating the THRUSH threat to Napoleon and the others, leaving none for himself.  In his still-addled memory, he heard his friend say, “Let it _all_ go.”

For the moment, he did.  He targeted one of the THRUSHes aiming at him.  Before he could get that shot off, he felt the sting of two needles.  His eyes rolled up in his head while his brain seemed to incandesce, and then he was out.  The revolver dropped to the floor.

<><><><><> 

Napoleon barged into awareness when he heard metal on metal.  His head swam for a brief moment then oddly cleared when he heard a shot originating from his right.

Using only one eye, which mostly defeated the blurred vision, he watched a THRUSH fall.  A perfect hit to the heart.

He smiled to himself.  _That's my partner.  A dead shot even with his left and under the influence_.

Another shot before he could look to his right, and a second man slumped to his right, not quite collapsing but at least momentarily out of the shooting match.

Napoleon turned to see Illya take two darts, one to his damaged left cheek and another perilously close to his center neck.  Illya's hand unfurled its hold on the Smith & Wesson.  Its clatter on impacting the floor told Napoleon exactly where it had landed.

Then he heard Bex groan painfully and thud to the ground.

“We just want the little blond guy,” said a THRUSHman, now targeting Solo.

_Over my cold, dead body_.  “Now, now, that's against doctor's orders,” he said with a hint of authority that a teacher would use with a misbehaving student.

Again, the two fully upright THRUSHes paused as if to question why they needed a doctor's permission to take Kuryakin.  Napoleon took advantage and flung his aching, stiff body off the stretcher, added a few more bruises, miraculously not getting tangled up in the thin sheet that covered him.  He scrambled to the police weapon and clutched the tactical grip in his right hand.  The stretcher wound up on its side, perfectly positioned for Napoleon to use as cover.

Several sleep darts pinged off the gurney before Napoleon could twist into a semi-decent firing position.  With one eye still closed, he popped up and fired off two shots, each one finding a recipient.  One expired immediately while the other staggered back, left arm flopping at his side.  Before Solo could fire a shot at the THRUSH Illya had wounded, he fled from the ER.

“Illya?” Napoleon said weakly, even though he knew his partner couldn't respond.

“He'll be okay, Napoleon,” he heard Bex say.  He looked toward the voice that seemed so far away.  The pained face gave him a reassuring smile.  “You both will be.  Hot damn, no wonder y'all are the top two--”

He didn't hear the rest.  As his vision fish-eyed, he grabbed the rail of Illya's stretcher with the intention of pulling himself up to confirm that his friend was truly on the way to “okay.” He grunted once and fell away, aware of nothing yet again.


	12. Chapter 12

Over the next thirty-six hours, Solo went from unconsciousness to semi-consciousness countless times, when he was plagued by total body aches.  His only thoughts during the latter were of Illya, whether he was alive, still feeling the effects of the chemical, or dead, having yielded to the chemical's effect.  His only awareness of his surroundings was that he was on a bed.

His head finally cleared enough that he recognized the familiar smells of a hospital, could think about more than Illya's status.  _Where …?_ In the same second, he knew: the muted groans characteristic of one angry, frustrated Russian came from his left.

He turned toward his left and there Illya was, in four-point leather restraints, head swathed in a skewed turban of white gauze, cheek patched with the same.  Before he could speak, Illya slowly calmed down, never once opening his eyes, and then sighed.  Not quite peaceful, but relaxed.  It was then he realized that Illya was no longer fuzzy around the edges; those were now crisp and distinct.  His headache was definitely more annoying than debilitating.  The concussion was resolving.

Napoleon called for the nurse.  When she entered, a prim, young woman in a starched white uniform and a mainsail nurse's cap, she smiled.  “Mr. Solo, you're looking _much_ better.  How—”

“Hello.  I'm fine.  Now let's skip all the formalities and get my friend released from his bonds.  I'll see to it that he won't harm anyone or himself.”

“And how do you propose to do that, Mr.  Solo?  You're not exactly in the best shape yourself.”

“He trusts me and I'm his boss”— _when he lets me—_ ”and will do as I say.”   _Maybe_.  “Push my bed next to his.  I take full responsibility.”  He knew he would have to be touching Illya, a short of early-warning system, when he, Solo, slept.  Interrupted sleep was a small price to pay to spare his friend the torture of more trauma to his wrists and ankles.

The nurse, who'd been informed of the agents' situation and partnership, contemplated the proposal for several minutes.  She exhaled resignedly.  “Against my better judgment, I'll allow it.  I'll have an orderly come in shortly.  Until then, your partner stays restrained.”

Solo flashed her an appreciative, sparkling smile.  “Thanks.”

<MFU>

Even beneath the sedation and analgesia, the self-harm urge remained like a constant, low-grade electrical current that would spike without warning but Kuryakin could feel it slowly weakening its hold on him, the ersatz power diminishing.  In his lucid moments, he wondered bleakly if this would take as long to completely disappear as the fear gas did.  Fortunately, Napoleon seemed to sense when the impulse raised its noxious head, and would gently squeeze his shoulder or arm, calming the compulsion to a manageable level.

In between these little skirmishes—Illya was confident he was winning the war and was simply fighting a few resolute soldiers—he listened to Napoleon breathing and speaking soft reassurances to him, felt his hand resting on his almost constantly.  That even helped when disturbing memories began to seep into awareness.

<MFU>

Another day passed before Illya, now sixteen hours without sedation, had the strength to open his eyes.  Though Napoleon's eyes were closed, Illya could tell he was dozing lightly from the pattern of his respirations.  His friend's right hand rested on Illya's right arm.  His eyes searched for the arm he remembered seeing bandaged, but it was out of his field of vision.  His gaze returned to Napoleon's face, to see the hazel-brown eyes alight with pleasure.

“It sure is good to see your baby blues are no longer channeling Rasputin.”

Illya licked his dry lips and cleared his gravelly throat.  “I'm adept at hiding such things,” he muttered.  “Including my intention of seeking revenge against you for leaving me handcuffed.”

Napoleon chortled.  “You are adept at many things.  I'm hoping revenge isn't one of them.”

“Napoleon,” Illya said, a little more loudly and turning serious, “thank you for keeping me out of … _my_ way.”

“I owe you thanks, too.  We're both out of harm's way.  And the world.  For now.”

“That is the nature of our lives.”  Illya placed his left hand over Napoleon's and closed his eyes, tranquil for the first time in many hours.


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

_St.  Patrick Cemetery, New Orleans_

Napoleon Solo, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, stood at the entrance to the cemetery and waited.  The left sleeve of the jacket was a little snug, thanks to the bandage on his knife wound.  It only hurt when he made certain movements.  The bump that was evidence of his head injury was almost nonexistent.

The agent deeply breathed in the fresh air.  Even in the blasted heat and humidity, it was good to be out of the New Orleans office, where he'd been in charge while most agents were in still Baton Rouge and Shreveport wrapping up those missions.  He pushed his Foster Grant wrap-around sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose, victim of a light sheen of perspiration.

Several minutes later, a navy blue sedan pulled up, taking the last parking space—a rarity that there was one at all in this part of town.

Illya Kuryakin, grim-faced and garbed like his partner except for aviator-style sunglasses that hid most of the stippling, exited the vehicle.  The cuffs of his shirt flapped open due to the thick wrist bandages.  The dressings were gone from his head and cheek.  He had even cut his hair to lend some symmetry to the temporary trim dictated by the bullet wound.  He strode, in spite of the limp that telegraphed still-painful ankles and feet, to Napoleon.  His only greeting, despite them having been separated for several days, was a somber nod.  They walked side by side to the Bussiere family mausoleum.

They stood at parade rest, wilting in the smothering humidity of the Crescent City, seemingly not bothered by it, if they even noticed.  Their silent attention was riveted on the stone plaque bearing the name of their friend and colleague.

After many minutes, Napoleon broke the quiescent tableau with a discreet throat-clearing.  “Mr. Waverly said the requiem mass was very nice.  Julie's family asked him to send us their thanks.”

Illya, fresh from his release from the Baton Rouge HQ under 24/7 guard for a week of observation to make sure the effects of the drugs were gone, sighed.  “I'm … pleased for Julie and his family that he was entombed on consecrated ground.”

_It was too close to you being buried, my friend_ , Napoleon thought.  He shivered despite the heat.

Illya caught the incongruous flutter.  He had been able to control his own physical reaction to the thought that Napoleon had come close to being killed in the arboretum and the ER.  “Napoleon?” he asked softly.

“I … I was just thinking that we barely squeaked by on this one,” he whispered as he fixed his gaze steadfastly on his best friend's eyes.

Illya, returning the look, heard the unspoken addendum, because he was thinking the same thing.  _I could not have borne it either had you not survived_.

They stood there for a long moment, communicating without words in that uncommon way only extraordinary partners have.

Illya broke the nonverbal exchange.  “Napoleon, do Catholics have a specific prayer for times such as this?”

“Not to my knowledge.  How about we just say a little something.”

Illya nodded.  “You were a good friend and a good agent, Julie.  You will be missed.”

Napoleon felt his throat tighten at Illya's heartfelt words.  He coughed so he could speak his own.  “The world is a little more diminished without you in it, Jules Bussiere.”

After a pause, Illya said, “These words don't seem to be enough, especially knowing firsthand what Julie went through.”   _There but for the grace of Napoleon go I_.  He thought of the recently named syndrome, survivor's guilt.  There was finally a name for the heaviness in his heart that he'd been accumulating since childhood.  Julie's death added to that ever-growing guilt.  If Napoleon died before him, it would be guilt beyond words, beyond coping.

Illya let go of that horrific, soul-damaging thought.  He re-centered his thoughts on Julie.  There had to be a better tribute to his fellow agent than a mere few words, but he couldn't think of one.

Napoleon sensed a spiritual vulnerability in his friend.  Illya kept it well-hidden, only coming out for brief moments when something reminded him of his family or the war.  Napoleon thought about what the three of them had in common, other than being UNCLE agents.  A small U.S. Marine Corps emblem medallion, embedded in the plaque, gave him the answer.

“I agree, IK.  You know, Julie was a Marine in Korea.  Maybe some sort of military honor?”

Illya exhaled audibly, nodded once.  They knew without words what they would do.

They put a little distance between them, then stood at attention and saluted their fellow agent, holding it for several seconds.

The friends began their stroll back to the car when Illya's rumbling stomach fractured the quiet of the cemetery.  His neck crimsoned at Napoleon's amused smile.

“Didn't they feed you enough at Baton Rouge, _tovarishch_?”

“They did, with some … encouragement.  However, I'm ready for second breakfast.”

Napoleon checked his watch.  “I think you've missed that.  How about Elevenses?”

Illya smiled, closed-lip.  Not many Americans were familiar with that late morning British light meal.  But then again, there were no Americans like Napoleon Solo.  “Coffee and chicory with beignets?”

“Café du Monde?”

“Is there another place?” asked Illya, not expecting an answer.

They continued on in silence, reaffirming their common vocation of protecting the world—and each other—from harm.

**the end**

copyright 2019

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CoriKay, beta extraordinaire, for her many spot-on suggestions. Also thanks to mrua7 for her help with the title of this story/affair.


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